How the bet was won
by Heliopause
Summary: Things are looking grim for defeated, humiliated Rabadash; his future—personal and political—is balanced on a knife-edge. But there are other, unknown powers involved, very keenly interested in how matters will unfold for him, and for Calormen... This story was first published as part of the NFE 2015. Thanks to betas autumnia and asakiyume. Rated T for mild moral complexity.
1. Prologue: among the Immortals

**Prologue: among the Immortals**

"Mine!" sniggered Silenus, reaching one plump hand to gather up his winnings. "Double or quits?"

Tash snarled, refusing to look at the broad shining round below, where mortals flickered in and out of their brief lives, and where immortals sometimes blessed—and sometimes gamed.

The other gods smiled, or shrugged, or sighed, according to their nature. Tash always played high, and if he lost, always lost ungracefully. It had been inevitable that this loss, with complete defeat of the Calormene forces, and the open mockery of his highest piece at the Anvard feasting, would bring out the worst in him—though it was an even question among them, indeed, as to whether he was more insufferable after losses or after wins.

"Epona's support would have served you well, Silenus," commented Azaroth, consideringly, "even without our elder brother's interventions."

"Pah!" Tash turned suddenly and savagely on the White Mare. "What in the name of the fire-stones were you doing running support for anyone other than _me_?"

The Horse-goddess tossed her head and moved away with precise, delicate steps, ignoring in silence her brother's continuing diatribe.

" _Answer_ me! I had put in play _two hundred horse_ …"

"And one A-a-ass," sang Bacchus, and danced lightly away out of Tash's reach.

"You both played well," Pomona offered hastily, and frowned a rebuke, aside, to the Wine-god, signalling _don't wind him up; it just makes it worse._ "Let's take a break from the betting for a while. Shall we all relax with something more co-operative? A round of Seasons?"

Nobody replied.

She sighed, and turned away to sketch a consoling fecund glow across Terebinthia. Bacchus, somewhat abashed, moved across and silently added a strong sweetness to the vintage being trodden out by the tiny fragile creatures there. She smiled in acceptance, but there was sadness in her whispered words: "It could all be so _easy!_ "

Bacchus grimaced. "They don't either of them do _easy_. Well, Silenus is easy on himself, I suppose. But Tash isn't even that."

"It's such a _waste._ Listen to them!"

"Double or quits!" Silenus was persisting. "Bet you your pet piece—the current Tisroc's heir—doesn't last a month! Your pets can't take ridicule, can they, hey? Bet you he's on the way out!"

"Kkhhhhh….." Tash's dry wordless hiss signified mounting anger. Silenus chortled comfortably and raised the never-empty goblet which stood always near his hand.

"You promised them a thousand years, didn't you, Hatchet-head? My guess is… the loss of the battle, plus the ridicule…" He paused to take a long, contented draught. "Your piece'll be done for in a month, and your precious empire will be in battle again with those Zalindreh rebels! Hey? Are you game? Double or quits that I'm right!"

"Let be, Silenus." Azaroth's remote, judicial tones cut in. "This round of the game is over. It was neatly played, at least, despite the interferences,"

"Who asked _you_ for an opinion?"—Tash, in no amiable mood—"I haven't called finish yet! Clean up your own squalid detritus and leave the play to the players!"

"As you will." Azaroth smiled impeturbably, and swept a darkness across the board; the corruscations which had been ungathered mortal souls winked out as if they had never been. "There! Gone! Safe-shrouded till the ending of all things. You're doubling up, then?"

"I'm _thinking!_ " Tash turned back to bend his piercing gaze on the world of mortal struggle.

Pomona softly touched the Wine-god's arm. "Help him out, will you? He has a hard enough time, and it _wasn't_ really fair, what Epona and elder brother did." Bacchus raised one eyebrow quizzically. "No! Don't get him started on that! Just… help him out a bit."

"He should have expected Epona to step in; his way of playing treats horses ill…" Pomona nodded disconsolately. "…and as for elder brother—you know him! He'll have been running one of his wildly detailed, totally unguessable long-term plans, where what happens to the _pieces_ is as important as who wins the game."

He laughed, his eyes inviting Pomona to join in the joke, but she refused the diversion.

"I know—but… Dionysus?" The laughter in his eyes gentled; very few now called him by that older, more intimate name. "Please? I've never let _you_ down."

"Ah! True!" He folded one golden arm around her shoulders in swift repentance. "What would I do without you? All right. I'll see what I can do— _if_ he'll listen!"

He slipped away and was suddenly back with the gamesters.

"Tell you what, Silenus! Let's make a _real_ match of it! Double or quits, you and Epona, me and Tash. What do you say?"

Silenus seemed taken aback at this unexpected entry of his former pupil, and only blinked; Tash sneered automatically, " _Keep your drunken debaucheries for boys and Narnian fools!_ ", then stopped, confused.

Bacchus grinned. "You and me, Tash? Think we can take them down?"

"Why would I want to work with _you?_ " Tash muttered—but an uneasy shivering in his wings hinted at a half-disbelieving, half-hopeful interest in the offer; his company was not often sought by the more southern gods.

"Just for the fun of something different, hey?" Bacchus patted in comradely fashion the bony shoulder from which sprouted baleful wings. "Are you in?"

Tash jerked his head in a form of semi-acquiescence, and Bacchus waited for no more.

"Silenus! Tash and I have a mind to take you up on your boastings! What was it you said, O dissolute tutor of innocent youth? That the Tisroc's heir would be done for in a month, and Calormen's empire would be in battle with open rebellion—yes?"

"Two against one…" Silenus began. "If Tash has you…"

"Epona?" Bacchus called across to where the Mare stood, listening with ears tipped back. "You took Tash by surprise, giving those two Horses the extra stamina to make it across his desert. Are you game to try one more round, two against two?"

She snorted, contemptuously. "Let him learn with his pet Rabadash that Horses can make their own pace, not needing the whips of Men for speed! As for your game, I care not. Put my name to the wager, if you will."

"That's my Sister of the Shining Hooves! See, Silenus? Epona doesn't flinch."

"I do not." She blew a long breath through pinched nostrils. "I will be glad to see it done—the fall of one who drove two hundred of my own near to foundering, and the crumbling of the empire which enslaves them. Silenus, I walk with you."

"Then…" Silenus looked somewhat apprehensively at his irrepressible, unpredictable former pupil. "Then… yes, if I can have her help with the horses—that's horses, chariots, _and_ baggage-ponies, mind! and couriers!—you can give Tash all the wine and song you like. But he hasn't said he's agreed yet."

Tash paused irresolute, then, perhaps goaded by the attentive silence of the other gods, suddenly and angrily burst out with, " _Yes!_ Done!"

"So! Done and done!" exulted Bacchus. "Silenus! Epona! _Prepare to lose your bet!_ "


	2. In Tashbaan

**"And** ** _now_** **what?"** Tash was seething. "What sort of unwinnable bet have you got me into? Listen to them! It's treason and schism already."

Bacchus grinned, but did not turn from watching the little cargo ship in the world of mortals, ploughing laboriously upriver to the Temple-wharf in Tashbaan. On her deck a group of Tarkaans were in hot debate, well away from the sheltered stall where a dusty, sulky Ass stood tethered, long ears straining to hear their talk.

"They're nearly there! Not long now…"

Tash's beak clacked in frustration. "Kkkhhhhh! His men scorn him already; he is shamed before them! And his father has no use for fools; how long before he loses the heirship? and then comes the struggle for power between brothers, and in the confusion Zalindreh province…"

"Will rebel, with much bloodshed," Bacchus grimaced, adding swiftly, "but not if we succeed in winning this bet!"

"Without _horses_? Without control of horses, and war-chariots, and… without even _couriers!_

"Ah, but, brother, you forget! _We_ have wine and song! Theatre! Dance!"

"Kkkkhhhhaaaaaa!" It was one long exclamation of despair and disgust. "Useless! They will have all the battle-power, and we have…. kkkhhhaaaa!"

"They won't have it all their own way!" The Wine-god's eyes were alight with the joy of the challenge. "We'll make them work for it, at any rate! What was elder brother's ruling? That Rabadash stand in your Temple now, at this very festival, and be transformed back from Ass to Man before all Tashbaan, yes?"

"Yes. How after _that_ will he lift his head? His father will have him killed, if nothing else!"

"We will find the way! Tell me about your Temple—does the worship run to wildness? To dance? Or just to ecstasy and holy songs?"

"To none of those." Tash's voice was chill with disapproval. "There is no song in my temple— _or_ dance."

"No song?" Bacchus blinked. "No paeans of praise? No _dance?_ "

"I deal, and my priests deal, with the _real_ truths of mortal life," replied Tash, "with the unceasing mortal struggle for dominance, and the inexorable approach of its ending. What place have these for _song_ or _dance?_ "

"Oh." Bacchus for the first time seemed at a loss. "Sounds… ahhh… very cerebral, of course, Tash, but… rather _dull._ "

Tash lifted his head proudly. "Can hard truth be _dull?_ In my Temple men hear _truth_ in the clash of metal against metal, the flow of blood and the shrieks and bellowing of bulls; when these cease, remains only the unarguable silence of death."

"Well, it's your temple, I suppose…" Bacchus began, with evident distaste.

"At least I _have_ a temple!" Tash said quickly.

"And I don't _need_ a temple!" Bacchus retorted, and then hurried on. "In that case, we'd best turn to the people outside the Temple—to the singers, dancers, street players."

"This is Tashbaan, not the provinces," Tash replied, coldly. "Who would permit such waste of time or substance in diversion from the real business of life?"

"Meaning _the struggle for dominance and the approach of death_ , I suppose?" Bacchus scoffed, then added more seriously, "There'll be a lot more of both of those than I want to see if we lose this bet, and the empire begins to break!"

"So? _You_ forced this bet on me—I thought you had some plan, but… I knew it! Why did I ever let such a vacuous, jejune, time-wasting…"

Bacchus' eyes for an instant shot out a brutal, searing heat; Tash's petulance withered in that instant into something like fear. Behind them the ship edged alongside the wharf.

The moment passed. When Bacchus spoke again, it was almost with his familiar, deceptive amiability.

"Let neither of us waste time, brother; they are almost at the Temple. It is not just for my honour that I play. Tell me clearly: is there no singing at _all_ in Tashbaan? No dance, or theatre?"

"Nothing of the sort you mean. Slaves on the river-ships bellow when they work, and call it singing, and it is possible the more idle Tarkheenas and their handmaids ornament their stories with such frippery—but what have slaves or women to do with the matter of dynasties and empires?"

"More than you think. But we'll need something _now_ , as soon as possible—look there!"

Both gods watched in silence as the ship tied up, and a kicking, biting Ass was led, with no little difficulty, down a broad gangplank, through a tense, waiting crowd, and into the Temple. As the Ass and escort passed the Temple-gate a buzzing ran through the crowd; the people surged as one to follow, to crowd inside, and to _see_. Clearly rumour had outsped the ship.

"They _know!_ " groaned Tash. " All Tashbaan will see this! The mockery will drive him mad. We have lost, Bacchus. _Lost!_ "

"They won't all be able to see in that crowd—and we won't have lost if you'll just give me something to work with," Bacchus snapped. " _Anything!_ Anything that will happen _now_! You said slaves on the river sing, and court-women… "

"That's all there is," Tash said flatly. "and they certainly won't be singing at a time like this. They might even not recite the Acclamation of the Subjugated."

"The what?"—with quick, keen attention.

"The Acclamation, by those called the Subjugated—once they used prisoners brought back in chains from conquered lands, but now they keep court officials to recite it—it's the traditional greeting for the return of the heir of the Tisroc from battle. But battles are usually victorious…"

"But even so… it still might happen? Do they _chant?_ " Bacchus was tensed, poised for action.

"Unless the Tisroc has decreed its silencing. It's not what you call song, though—they just call aloud—one calls, and the rest echo—and clash cymbals and swords, and such rubbish, and recite the powers and titles of the heir…"

"With _cymbals?_ " Bacchus' voice rose a notch; he grabbed Tash's nearest arm and shook it. "Where are they? I can work with this! _Where are they?_ "

"They'd be at the Great Colonnades, if the Tisroc hasn't… Bacchus?"

But Bacchus was already gone.


	3. Acclamation of the Subjugated

**When Tash next saw him,** Bacchus was peering intently into the Great Colonnades, peering to see the approach of the Tisroc's heir—or more precisely, peering into the tensions which rippled and swirled around the little knot of the Subjugated as they waited to offer the acclamation.

The chief among them, Erahah, clenched dry hands; it was surely death which would come closer with each stride of the First-born Prince. If they uttered the customary Acclaim, or if they kept silence unordered—either would be death.

Beside him, his second, Narash, had fallen to the ground; his cymbals rang faintly, in sympathy with his shaking. Others of the Subjugated were moaning, in high-pitched quavering moans… It was itself almost a kind of music, Erahah thought distractedly, like the thin, droning noise of goatskin pipes...

"That is the one we must watch," murmured Bacchus to his companion. "He does the bidding of your pieces, but he is my own, nonetheless. He lives in song."

"And how does that help _us?_ My piece is on the verge of madness with the shame; madness and mockery will undo him—if his father doesn't have him killed first!— rebels at the edge of the empire will feel they can flout Tashbaan… "

"Then we must first find a way to use this singer to turn aside the shame and make the mockery fall harmless," replied Bacchus, his eyes still fixed on Erahah.

" _How?_ "

Bacchus did not reply.

With an effort Erahah wrenched his mind back to face the pressing problem before him. The First-born _must_ be met on his first entry back into the court precincts with the Acclamation, but after the tales which had come back from the debacle at Anvard how could anyone sing the expected, accustomed lines? Especially that one line...

 **He is the Sword in the hand of the Tisroc**

 _(clash of cymbals)_ **May he live forever!**

 **He rides to punish the rebellious nations!**

( _clash of cymbals_ ) **They cower before him.**

 **He is the Thunderbolt of Tash, Inexorable,**

( _clash of cymbals_ ) **falling from above…**

No, _that_ line must be as forgotten, sunk in a silence deep as Azaroth. Erahah swallowed, trying to conjure some moisture into his mouth. Something must be said, but not that! How he could find now, in these few minutes left, words which could have no shadow of mockery of the Tisroc's ( _may he live forever_ ) own son. Bad enough then, with the story of the hook on the walls of Anvard, but now _this…_

 _This_ , the new disaster which had crashed over their heads, which had come in a rolling murmur from the very Temple itself, that the Ass which had been hustled from the wharves to the Temple, had indeed, before all men, as prophesied… not to be spoken! Not to be thought!

Erahah closed his eyes, the better to close his mind against those thoughts, and to force from the vaults of his memory something— _anything!—_ which could be used now to fill the silence. Nothing came. The buzzing of the crowd between the Temple and the Great Colonnades grew louder; the Prince would soon be on them.

He kicked out, secretly and savagely, at Narash. They _must_ fill the silence… they must invent new words, must invent them _now_ … But Narash had nothing. Then he himself must, alone. He took a breath…

 **"Lo…"** He heard his voice slither to an uncertain screech, and began again. **"Lo, it is the return of the eldest son!"**

Nothing. No voice called in return. He kicked again, and his foot hit Narash's cymbal with unexpected force. _Clang!_

Off-key. But he could feel the rest of the Subjugated jerk in surprise, like handmaids jumping guiltily at the call of an angry mistress. He pushed on at random, drawing the words from the turmoil of his brain.

 **"Behold him now, the mighty heir of empire!"**

Narash had pulled himself up onto his knees; his voice came chokingly:

 **"They cower before…"**

 _Clang!_ Erahah drowned the words with another, stronger kick, to steer away from the dangerous words which followed next in the traditional form.

And now Rabadash had entered the Colonnades, treading the marble floor in jerky strides, with the angry, stiff-legged gait of total public humiliation, each step one step closer to the terrified, shaking Subjugated. Erahah's mind convulsed, and found another line…

 **He strides the earth, and the ground shakes!**

 _(Clang!)_

Erahah felt a small wash of thankfulness run through him. Narash was up, and at least able to follow the beat of the line with the cymbals. With what felt like enormous effort he dragged from his store of words another line.

 **His voice is like the thunder; his eyes burn like lightning**

 _(Clang!)_

Yes. That was a line he could follow, tracing out likenesses. He felt the beginnings of hope. They might yet survive this day … _like thunder… like lightning…_ a long-buried memory stirred, of a children's game…

He darted one desperately pleading glance to Narash beside him, and mouthed _likenesses!_

…and then Narash, _incomparable_ Narash! _Best_ of seconds! His eyes showed that he understood. After only the briefest of pauses his thin voice sounded:

 **Oh, what is his likeness, in the air?**

Erahah breathed relief, and answered:

 **He is as the soaring Eagle, far above the desert sands!**

 _Clang!_

(Surely that was another cymbal sounding now, not Narash's alone?)

 **Oh, what is his likeness on the seas?** Narash queried.

 **He is as a great ship, hung with banners of his triumph!** Erahah replied, with mounting confidence.

 _Clang!_

(Yes! That was the entire back row—and the four swordsmen, he saw now from the corner of his eye, were alert and ready to clash their weapons.)

 **Oh, what is his likeness among things that grow?**

 **He is as the unyielding terebinth, flourishing when other trees fall!** _Clang! Clash!_

They had settled into a rhythm; they would _live!_ he thought, jubilantly—and then, with Prince Rabadash just two paces away, he heard Narash call, unwarily, _disastrously:_

 **"Oh, what is his likeness among four-footed beasts?"**

The Prince checked, mid-stride, and turned, eyes blazing; it seemed to Erahah that time had stopped, too.

" _This_ is how," said Bacchus to Tash, with his own smile of immense, unhurried power, and moved unseen to breathe one warm, sweet breath into the very mouth of the singer—

and Erahah heard in amazement his own voice, ringing triumphant through the Colonnades:

 **He is as a great war-stallion, trampling his enemies to dust!**

and all the cymbals and the swords clashed, and the Subjugated all echoed as one:

 **He is as a great war-stallion, trampling his enemies to dust!**

and before him Erahah saw the Prince, standing, open-mouthed, but not… certainly not displeased.

Something of the anger had died from that stormy face, or had perhaps been knocked aside by the force of a startling new idea. For a long terrifying moment it seemed the Prince might actually speak to Erahah—but then ( _thanks be to Tash!_ ) he swivelled, to address the little wrinkled figure bobbing in his wake.

"There is change, Vizier, in the words of Acclamation?"

"I… I know not, Great Prince."

"Are you deaf, as well as stupid? I say there was change!"

"It was so, Lord!"

"A—great—war-stallion," Rabadash mused, looking distantly along the Colonnades. "Indeed. If one as mighty as I am, as clean in battle, should ever have been… "

He shot an intimidating glance at the Grand Vizier. "If I were ever to take some other form than this, Vizier, would I not seem as a mighty stallion?"

"Assuredly, Great Prince!"

"Yes! Even as the vision that was shown to all men in the temple of Tash."

"It… it would seem," stammered the Vizier.

The Prince spun on his heel, surveyed the trailing mess of courtiers, and jabbed a finger at one, randomly.

"You! You have been with us in the Temple. _What did you see there?_ "

"We saw… we saw, my lord, that… my eyes were dimmed but it seemed that you were favoured… favoured with the shape of …" The man's voice wavered into inaudibility.

Rabadash bared his teeth, and rolled his eyes until only the whites showed; the man moaned and collapsed, face-down on the floor. Erahah shot a quick, panicking glance to Narash, but before they could drop likewise the Prince turned and barked directly to them "Again! The Acclamation!"

And then there was a single clashing of the cymbals, and he heard Narash's thin, pure voice rise and wander in the air:

 **"Oh, say then, you Subjugated, for all men would know:**

 **What is the likeness of our Prince, among four-footed beasts?"**

and Erahah felt his chest fill—oh, day of wonders!—with power and with melody, and he answered:

 **"He is as a great war-stallion, trampling his enemies to dust!** "

 _Clang!_ _Clash!_

and the whole of the Subjugated cried as one, again and then again:

 **"He is as a great war-stallion, trampling his enemies to dust!** "

The Prince swayed a little, rocking on his heels; he half-closed his eyes, as if to contemplate the words of Acclamation, or the picture they called up, and a half-smile of deep, complacent satisfaction suffused his lean, fierce face.

Then his eyes snapped open, he nodded once, brusquely, and moved away along the Colonnades.


	4. Education of a favoured child

**That his father knew** was inevitable.

Rabadash had long since stopped wondering _how_ his almost immobile, terrifyingly powerful father could know so much, without ever leaving the palace precinct. Straightening from his bow on entering, he had caught the shrewd, assessing look in his father's seemingly sleepy eyes, and knew that it was all known—the inept command of battle, the hook, the jeering, the transformation—all of it. He felt the old familiar chill run through him at the prospect of facing his father's anger—or worse, disgust.

But his father merely shifted a little in his cushions, opened half-closed eyes and surveyed him in silence, in the manner, the Prince thought, of a Tarkheena whose pet monkey had misbehaved to the discomfort of a friend—with some disgust, yes, but with some lurking malicious pleasure, too. When he spoke, it was not, or not directly, to Rabadash.

"Neither dead, nor victorious, Grand Vizier." The first words came in the bored tones of one who has endured too long the inanities of a disposable inferior. "Tell me, has such ever come about before today, in all the history of Calormen, that the Prince and Heir has returned from battle, _not_ victorious?"

Was this for show? A veiled threat? Ahoshta, on hands and knees, murmured obsequious nothings, ignored by both Tisroc and Heir.

"Ah, Rabadash. Rabadash—he has been ever my favourite among my sons…"

Not true, or if true, such favour had been well concealed. But certainly his father seemed rather pleased than otherwise at his failure—seemed even _amused._ So one layer of his father's mind was clear, at least—that given to the pleasurable contemplation of his son's humiliation. But equally of course, there would be more; his father's mind had always been many-folded, mind behind mind, impossible to perceive in full.

"My favoured son and heir—so long my favourite, only to have found such deep dishonour." The last words were said with lingering relish; the Tisroc closed his eyes, and smiled.

Rabadash waited.

The sting came soon enough. The heavy eyes snapped open, deadly-sharp; the words that came were directly to the Prince.

" _Blunderer!_ How shall we.." _clean up the monkey's mess?_ Rabadash thought. "…restore Calormen to its peace, once-favoured Rabadash?"

"Calormen's peace, O my Father?"

"Ignorant, self-regarding boy! Does a Prince's person and a Prince's reputation concern the Prince alone? Short-lived were the Princes who have thought so!"

Rabadash was silent, unsure how best to manoeuvre; _once-favoured_ still hung ominously in the air. And— _short-lived?_

"Speak, Grand Vizier! Enlighten this untutored Prince!"

"It is written that _The renown of the ruler is peace for his people; where a Prince is despised, there is turmoil and woe_ ," Ahoshta quoted—so glibly that it was clear that he had foreseen the demand. "Further, is it not also said that _as troubled waters erode the containing dyke,_ _so trouble in a people erodes the ruler's rule_."

How much of this interview had been planned between the two, Grand Vizier and Tisroc, Rabadash wondered. Was his deposition as heir already agreed? Or his death?

"A despised Prince… " The Tisroc nodded thoughtfully. "But _none_ is permitted to threaten my rule, rash boy, not were it even my _once_ —most—favoured—child." The words fell with a slow, cold inevitability.

" _Therefore_ , my son, since it is known that you have been seen in the form of an A…"

"Of a _Stallion!_ " Rabadash broke in, furiously. If he must die, then let it not be with that word ringing in his ears. "I took the form of a great Stallion! A war-stallion, a…"

"Even so?" This time, for once, he had surprised his father—surprise which showed in a puff of half-laughter. "You were seen to be a _great war stallion?_ Oh, very good, my son. But I have heard otherwise."

"Father! So spoke the Acclaim! Was it not so, crawling mumbler?"

He nudged Ahoshta with his foot, urgently. The Grand Vizier risked a glance up to assess what best to reply. The Tisroc waved one hand— _tell on_.

"Indeed, it seemed so, Sire. The Subjugated, as it may be inspired by Tash himself, broke forth when the Heir set foot inside the Great Colonnades, saluting him under the title of the Stallion of Power, who tramples his enemies into dust."

The Tisroc sat back, looking at Rabadash as if weighing his worth—or his possible worth. Slowly, his lips curled in a smile which was at once sardonic and closely calculating.

"Well done, my son! You entertain me! There is cleverness here which I little suspected in you, to so devise a salve for your bruise. But greatly though I delight in the easing of your pain, _it is not enough._ Understand me—it is not possible that no word of these happenings should leak out. The tale will be told, and therefore..."

"O my father!" Rabadash interrupted, desperate to avert the unknown doom, "if all know that certain and horrible death will fall on any who should utter…"

"Ahhh… " The smile shifted; the amusement was tinged now with complacent condescension. Rabadash began to feel hope.

"You have not yet the full wisdom of a ruler, my son. Know this… the _fear_ of death subdues, but certain death feeds rebellion. Those who know _of a certainty_ that death awaits them will strain every nerve to make their last breath worth the losing of their lives. We govern best when men do not know on whom the blow will fall, or when.

"To kill thus, even to kill _all_ , will not serve us in this matter. Even if all those who rode with you had been killed instantly, even if, as some counsellors suggested, that ship on which you have returned had been sunk and all aboard drowned, still the tale would have been told."

Rabadash guessed easily which counsellor had so advised; he kicked the Grand Vizier thrice, sharply, in the ribs.

The Tisroc's smile broadened. "Is it not an honour, Vizier, to feel in your own person the strength of this my son, who may yet live?" he enquired softly. "How great is our fortune that he has returned to us, escaping both the sorceries of the north, and the furious seas!"

"It is a great and glorious honour to be so favoured," gasped Ahoshta.

"Therefore… turn your mind, wily Vizier, to devising the way to save both his renown in the ears of our people, and the peace of our empire. This foolish boy's tale of a stallion will not serve… "

"It was the _truth!_ " The Subjugated _had_ so greeted him, and…. it probably _was_ true, anyway, that he had seemed, to those who looked on, to be in the form of a war-horse. He had _felt_ differently, yes… but that was doubtless due to going on unaccustomed hooves, and…

The Tisroc lifted lazy, amused, eyebrows.

"The day of your return is a day of great interest, my son. Let this tale of a Stallion be true, then, and let any other tale be known to be a Narnian lie. So I decree.

"But tell me: how shall it be if lies should spread? What if the people, doubtless dazzled by your glory, my son, should think they saw… an Ass?"

Rabadash winced. But though his father's taunt stung, it was indubitable now that he had somehow managed to escape being the immediate target of his wrath. The Grand Vizier had plainly come to the same conclusion; Rabadash saw with interest that even the back of the man's neck had paled.

"How say you,Vizier? How shall the Narnian lie be wiped from the minds of my people, and turmoil in the empire—is it not the case that there have been murmurings in Zalindreh of late?—be averted?"

The Grand Vizier gulped audibly. "In the markets of far Zalindreh, yes. If the Narnian lie should gain hold, and if Zalindreh should venture to hold Calormen in despite, there may be…"

"The lie will _not_ take hold, Grand Vizier,' said the Tisroc, "since you will now, on pain of painful death, devise its utter vanquishing."

"Great Tisroc," moaned Ahoshta, "it must… it must… Oh!" He jolted, visibly, with the impact of sudden thought. "Great Tisroc! Is it not truly said that gutter-water is lost, when it meets the river, and again, that the dung-fire is lost when the forest burns? Therefore, what better to drive the Narnian lie from currency than to make known to all people, swiftly and powerfully, our own more glorious tale!"

"Say on…" said the Tisroc.

"Let one account fight another!" Ahoshta was warming to his scheme. "Do not your subjects include those skilled in the telling of tales? Then let it be decreed, Great Tisroc, that this story of how our Prince fought and dared not spears and swords only, but dark sorceries, be told across Calormen! Let the people hear, and tremble at the shadows he faced; let them rise to acclaim his valour! Let them see through this story that Calormen's reach extends even beyond the mortal realm! Who then would dare even to _think_ of rebellion? Thus we will have two thongs to our lash—our story will both divert from the lie and overawe the…"

"Enough! It is decreed. Bring it to pass. Go."

There was short silence as the Grand Vizier scrabbled backwards to the doorway, then, as he reached it, the Tisroc spoke again.

"This will begin tonight, Vizier, with a story-telling in high and fitting manner, at the feast to welcome home this…," he paused, and the ironic, cruel amusement once again glinted in his eyes. "this _Rabadash_ , my most favoured child."


	5. A story told in Tashbaan

**"** ** _Inspired by Tash himself!_** **"** quoted Bacchus, snickering a little.

"And thinking they reach _even beyond the mortal realm!_ " Tash hissed indignantly. "It would serve them right if I left them to their own devices!"

"You haven't actually done anything yet," Bacchus pointed out. "Unless you put that thought into Ahoshta's head?"

"No," said Tash shortly. "Ahoshta uses his own cunning."

"Ah. Then maybe we should look in on this story-telling? Just to make sure it goes…"

"They won't need _you!_ Though I expect there will be wine."

"Excellent!" Bacchus' face lit up. "Where will we find them?"

"Probably the Hall of the Serpentine Inlays; that's the largest of the screened pavilions."

Bacchus raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"One where the Tisroc—and today there'll be the Grand Vizier with him, and Rabadash as well—can sit behind a stone lattice, to see without being seen. Theoretically, he's not there at all, so court protocols don't formally apply."

"And why the largest?"

Tash's eyes glinted. "No Prince, Tarkaan, Tarkheena or record-keeper who wants to keep the favour of the Tisroc will be able to _not_ attend the first feast after the return of the not-yet-deposed Heir."

"Watch your beak, brother! Our whole business here is to see that he's _not_ deposed…"

"Kkhhh!"

"…and _therefore_ , as your Tisroc is so fond of saying, let us go!"

"Are all those who rode to Anvard present?" the Tisroc was saying. A little below them, in the body of the Hall the hubbub was diminishing; the Story-teller was settling into place.

"All who returned, yes," murmured Ahoshta; his eyes flicked quickly to Rabadash.

The Prince had been standing, looking moodily down at the gathering, but at this he turned in sudden anger.

"Much hangs on this story-telling, dog!" he said. "Should your scheme go awry…". He let his burning eyes imply the rest.

The Tisroc's smile was placid. "Be untroubled, my son. The worthy Vizier would lose more horribly than even you could do, should this scheme go awry in the lightest particular. It will not do so. "

"Even as you say, O Ruler of the World. She who weaves the story tonight is Araseen Tarkheena, daughter of Axartha Tarkaan, who is by her father's teaching as wise in government as she is skilled in this art. The tale is safe with her."

"The tale and something more than the tale," grunted the Tisroc. "Silence."

Three men and two unseen gods bent to hear.

The Tarkheena was indeed skilled. Her audience listened intently as she told of the events of the weeks and days before the last full moon, of the Narnian visitors to Tashbaan, and the stunning insult with which they had repaid Tashbaan's unstinting hospitality.

Many of those listening had themselves given much to that welcome; their faces showed that the rebuff still stung, even as they enjoyed the abundant delicacies, and the flow of wine which worked to animate the present feast.

"They are sinking deep into the tale," observed Tash. "It seems that the wine is good."

"It should be!" said Bacchus, and helped himself again.

Now Araseen Tarkheena was telling of the magnificent ride across the Great Desert, by a Prince bent on revenge, and his two hundred companions.

"Then did the sun rise upon them, upon this unmatched two hundred! Then were seen the flashing eyes of noble warrior-Tarkaans! Then flew the silky manes and flared the soft nostrils of the brown, the chestnut, the grey and the dappled, driven without mercy, to drive Calormen's courtesy deep into the unmannered northern waste.

"Hotter than the desert sands was their unappeasable fury at the insult to our Prince, and to Calormen! Nor did one man flinch, nor did one horse falter, though the sun rose high. Around and above them roiled the golden dust of those burning sands; they rode in a sunlit glory, like to the glory of Tash!"

Bacchus looked down on the enraptured listeners. In scattered ones and twos throughout the bright assembly certain grim-faced Tarkaans sat tensely upright, with clenched fists, their thoughts unreadable, but around them, overwhelmingly, there was a swell of excited pride and admiration, and unquestioning allegiance. It was clear that the expedition in itself was not going to provoke any recoil from Rabadash's leadership.

"The tale of the battle may prove a different matter," he muttered to Tash, " _and_ what comes after. But if need be, I can intervene. She is close to being one of my own."

"She is all mine!" Tash snapped. "and she will not need _your_ help."

Rabadash meanwhile had grown restless.

"This wins us Tashbaan, worthless servant," he growled to the Grand Vizier, "but what use will it be at Zalindreh? They care nothing there for honour or glory."

"How sapient is this great Prince, child of the all-seeing Tisroc, may he live forever!" purred Ahoshta. "Truly, such matters are far above the minds of the market-hucksters of Zalindreh, nor is such skill and subtlety of word-weaving for them. Colour and quick movement will entice their thick brains, and such will clothe our story there."

Rabadash shrugged moodily, apparently accepting that Zalindreh could be lulled into acceptance by lavish spectacle, but Bacchus brightened still further.

" _Dance_ , does he mean? Theatre? Ahh…Calormen's _much_ more my own than you let on, brother!"

"They have been conquered only sixteen winters," Tash said sourly. "It was Rabadash's older brother who led that campaign."

"He had an older brother? Where is he now, then?"

Tash exhaled—a long, dry sardonic hiss, such as passed with him for laughter.

"Too much success in a battle is as dangerous for an heir as failure. There is room for only one sun to shine in Tashbaan's sky; even his name is now forgotten."

Bacchus glanced at the current heir.

"This one runs no risk there, at least. The Tisroc should be pleased to have such an eminently malleable heir. Look!"

Rabadash was now listening with mounting self-congratulation to Araseen's account of the battle—an account which dwelt most skilfully on feats of arms, hair's-breadth escapes, and bold defiances, while glossing over the fact that the raid had won for Calormen neither the pass, nor the castle of Anvard, nor any hostages or wealth.

"…for, as is known to all this company," she was saying, "our Prince rode _not_ to conquer, or extend our empire, nor for booty, but merely to punish the insolence of the Northern barbarians, which, being achieved, fulfilled his purpose in those unwholesome lands….

The Prince nodded thoughtfully, evidently reworking his own memories to fit this new interpretation of events.

Bacchus grinned appreciatively at Tash. "Very neat! Just thimble-trick the aims, and defeat _vanishes!_ "

Tash flexed his talons in satisfaction. "It is all their own invention, that."

"… and so his thoughts turned to the homeward ride, and the thoughts of his noble companions turned likewise, and so might have ended that day's valiant work. But hear you now what greatness lay ahead!

"Let it be known that though he had so greatly distinguished himself in battle, as you have heard, yet one more great deed would our Prince undertake, before he withdrew from fetid Archenland, and this while he stood alone—and utterly _unarmed…_ "

A murmur from the assembled nobles. The Prince, spellbound, rigid with tense anticipation, pressed closer still to the marble screen.

"…for know that these barbarians, in pretence of submission, had laid aside their arms, and invited our Prince to a great feast, and he, on whom be the favour of the gods! had likewise set aside both sword and shield, being the very soul of courtesy and honour …"

" _Yes!_ " Rabadash cried out excitedly. " _Thus_ it was!"

There was an instant hush in the assembly below, then the shuffling noise of many shiftings of posture. Rabadash shot a guilty, panicky glance at his father, but met no help in the weary irony which gazed back.

"Uhh… I am alone!" he called down, through the marble lattice. "Do not prostrate! Let the tale continue." Then, when there was no immediate response, "It is as she has said! Was it not so? _Speak_ , one of you who rode with me! Break your silence!"

"We had indeed laid aside our arms, Highness," said a tall Tarkaan soberly. "They feasted, and we were unarmed, after the battle. It is as she says."

"Hah!" in great satisfaction. "Tell on, story-teller."

Araseen Tarkheena, gracefully inclining her head in token of obeisance to the unseen listener, began again to speak.

"Our Prince stood, then, alone and unarmed, surveying benevolently and without recoil the unlovely foods and coarse wines which had been placed before him, to signify submission and the barbarians' acknowledgement of wrongdoing, but even as he stood there, these most treacherous of enemies were in secret plotting dark schemes… and dabbling in vile incantations!"

There was an audible intake of breath throughout the hall.

("She should be mine," said Bacchus. "She plays them like a lyre.")

"For padding softly into the Hall came the Great Demon of the North, the _Lion_ , summoned thence to leap upon our unprotected Prince and rend his gentle flesh!"

There were little cries here and there among the listeners.

"Nor was this all! For this Demon as he came unloosed frightful sorceries to swirl around and around our Prince, seeking to take from him his beauteous form and entrap him in some ignobility—for there is a magic often known in those Northern lands, where men can be trapped into the shape of their true inner nature, as the swinish into swine and the wolfish into wolves.

"But he, the Prince Rabadash, illustrious son of his more mighty father, may he live forever, stood strong and unafraid! _By Tash_ , he swore, _have I dared the desert-ride and the assault on Anvard's brutish walls to falter now? Am I not a Calormene? Am I not a son of Tash?_ "

"So it was," muttered the Prince to himself. "I stood to the Demon, face to face, and did not shrink."

"And he called upon the name of the Inexorable, saying, _Let it be, Lord Tash!_ _Let them assail me with filthy magics, and I will show how cleanly I will bring this business to an end._ "

"And moved by this our Prince's unmatched courage and nobleness of nature, the great god Tash acceded to his heart's desire, and withdrew for a season his protection from this favoured son!"

("Did you now?" Bacchus grinned to his companion. Tash looked at him, sidelong, but did not speak.)

"Then was a struggle more perilous than any mortal shedding of blood! Foul enchantments rose around our Prince, and for that he had required of Tash to let him battle these demons alone, as all men watched it seemed that the spell _did—take—effect_ , and he appeared to all men as one… four-footed."

She paused. There was not a sound, not a breath, from the assembly. Their eyes were wide with tension.

"And then, in the midst of all that was most foul—behold! our Prince's high magnanimity and power made manifest to all! Our Prince, our _Rabadash_ , appeared in no ignoble form, but one rightly fitting the warrior, the leader of men, the beloved of Tash, being seen by all men under the appearance of a _great grey Stallion_ , rearing above the beggarly Northerners in rightful power and _domination…_ "

Cries of joy and of relief broke from the assembly, and scattered shouts of _Tash! Tash!_ Araseen Tarkheena raised her voice a little.

"His trampling hooves struck lightning from their stony wastes, and all Anvard fell upon the floor in shame and in repentance, cowed..."

"It was so! _It was so_ … my true self shone through! _Yes!_ "

The Prince, overcome by enthusiasm, had leapt towards the little side-stairway leading to the floor of the Hall, pelted down the steps and burst through the curtain at its foot. His eyes were shining, and in an instant many of the assembly had leapt to their feet, and were gathered around him. Excited babble drowned out the last of the story.

The two Immortals looked at each other.

"He might have had the courtesy to hear the story's end," said Bacchus, and gestured, unseen, his thanks and respect to Araseen Tarkheena.

"They didn't need it! Rabadash is safe with both Tisroc and people," Tash replied, with a little exultant clattering of his beak. "We _will_ win this bet!"

"I think so. Let me just…" The Wine-god bent to catch the import of the ecstatic, unstoppable flow of words from one eager, seemingly dazzled, Tarkheena.

"O my Lord…" she was saying breathlessly. "O Great Stallion! _Ever_ the most intriguing of the sons of your great father, may he live forever! I would…" She looked over her shoulder at others eagerly pressing near."… _we_ would hear this tale again, my lord, from your own lips. O, pray come with us, to a _more private place_ , that we may hear it all again, my Lord, _from your own lips!_ "

Bacchus laughed aloud.


	6. A story told in Zalindreh

**In the Name of Tash,** the Irresistible, the Inexorable, and in the incomparable service of the Tisroc, may he live forever. From Bardish Tarkaan to the High Excellency Ahoshta Tarkaan, Grand Vizier, greeting.

Be it known to you, O my master, that that which you commanded me in the missive sent seven days past has been done with all celerity.

I have disbursed, through the hands of the several merchants whose interests are known to you, moneys sufficient for the roasting of sixteen bullocks, to be freely shared among the rabble of Zalindreh, at a Festival purporting to be in celebration of the subsuming of the former _free territory_ , so called, into our glorious Empire, the like number of years past. The next dark of the moon being imminent, and likewise favourable for the presenting of torch-lit spectacle, that night is the night selected for the fulfillment of your command.

I calculate that this roasting will draw the populace to the city, and moreover will render them, being well sated, more receptive to hear and be won to the matter transmitted in your missive, before ever Narnian lies could reach this place. The truths you revealed I have arranged to be presented at that Festival, in those unsubtle ways most fitted to Zalindreh's low cast of mind, by use of masks, raucous mummery, jangling tune-hawkers and the like mountebanks, as will best conduce to their acceptance.

Be assured that all these matters I did perform as you bade me, with discretion such that none knows how far this Festival is in accordance with commands from Tashbaan, but each one takes it to be of Zalindreh origin only.

Thus have I done, High Excellency, in your service, whom I commit to the care of all the gods.

"You see something in all this, then?" Tash enquired sceptically.

Around them the Zalindreh crowd surged and eddied in the shifting light and billowing smoke from sixteen great roasting-pits. From the oldest grandmother, beaming satisfaction at the unexpected holiday, to the dozens of squealing, wildly over-excited children, this was a crowd which was determined to miss nothing, from the free-for-all feast, to the many side-booths selling favours and sweetmeats, to the rumoured Grand Entertainment.

" _See_ something? Are you _serious?_ It's firestones-and-spear's-length _marvellous!_ Oh, I love it when people _throw_ themselves into life this way." Bacchus bounced exultantly on the balls of his feet, closed his eyes and drew in one long breath of the warm, spicy, smoky air.

"We're not here for pleasure. This is for…"

"Yes! Oh _yes_ , old Hatchet-head! But when business intertwines with pleasure as.."

"Then the business comes first. If Zalindreh isn't _won to the matter_ , as that Vizier's agent put it, then they may learn the truth, and learn to deride their masters—and it's a short path from derision to rebellion."

"Especially when rebelliousness and resentment lie close under the surface—yes." Bacchus was sobered. "Well, I will give all the help I can. I suppose _there_ is where we'll be seeing the _raucous mummery_ giving us all the official truth from Tashbaan."

He nodded towards a flat-topped earthen mound roughly midway along the waterfront, backed onto the sea. To one side were several small tents, lit by torches, and bustling with activity.

"And _there_ will be our _mountebanks!_ Oh, I'm gone!"

And he was, on the word. Tash followed more slowly, and found the Wine-god installed in the tent, plainly visible to the occupants, though not in godlike form. He was laughing and talking with them, several women and two men; it seemed they thought they knew him, though they paid him little enough attention, being busy with their preparations.

The women were brisk, lively and intent, tucking up their hair with capable practised hands under horse-head-dresses, and pulling on high-heeled footed leather leggings. They flung quick, cheerful remarks to each other, for the most part, offering Bacchus only hurried, distracted smiles. The two men, more sombrely, were covering their own smooth, skin-close costumes with baggy over-clothing; alongside lay two masks, a sheep's-head and a pig's. In the corner of the tent stood a tall contrivance, taller than a man, made with inner stilts and props and buckles, and resembling, though empty now, the outer form of a proud war-Horse.

Outside someone was shouting to the crowd, enticing them to gather with promises of the show to come:

"… _rock with laughter_ once again at the antics of Puppazi and Pappazen! …. _gasp_ at the dancing of the fair Barynthis, the finest and most subtle dancer of the western Isles, together, for this high festival alone… bring you _all the thrills of the recent battle_ when great Calormen…"

Bacchus sent a lightning-fast grin and wink Tash's way, and then was in amongst the performers, who were now crowding to the tent's entryway.

"Kiss for luck, _fair Barynthis?_ Hmmm…? hey, Mulla? Drendon… Quick kiss for luck?"

" _Whose_ luck?" one of them asked, blithely, and another said, "I'll kiss you when I've finished kissing _this!_ " and jauntily flourished a nearly empty leather bottle.

Nonetheless, between their joyous willingness and his irresistibly coaxing eyes, he had kissed them all by the time they'd pushed and tumbled their way to the tent door, and out into the firelight to begin their performance.

It began with much clowning, "in Anvard, in far Narnia", according to the Horse-Barynthis; apparently this southern city knew no distinction between Anvard and Cair Paravel.

The opening scene laid great stress on the Beastliness of life in Narnia, with the Horses vaingloriously boasting of their prowess in battle, and the Pig and the Sheep provoking much hilarity in the audience by interchanges highlighting the grossness of the one and the timidity of the other.

The two gods—Bacchus had once more receded from human sight—stood in the doorway, watching.

"Clever," commented Bacchus, regarding with critical eye the Horses, now holding their noses ostentatiously behind the Pig. "They are drawing Zalindreh into Calormen by finding a target for derision which is outside both."

"And setting up for the battle scene," replied Tash.

This came soon after. One of the few remaining Horses—several had already withdrawn, unnoticed—neighed aloud, "Calormen is coming!" and all the "Narnians" enacted wild, clumsy panic, with the Sheep, in particular, skidding around and around the earthen stage, before disappearing into the tent with a last, quavering, "Baa-aaa-aa!"

The applause was vociferous, but almost immediately the first of the soldiers—erstwhile Horses—ran onstage, and the battle commenced. This was more dance than drama, with Barynthis now in character as a slender, vigorous Prince Rabadash, the former Pappazen—"His name's Drendon," murmured Bacchus; Tash shrugged indifferently—re-appearing as a burly, inept King Lune, and another woman dancing as his son, Prince Edmund.

The dance soon disposed of Lune, but the climactic encounter between Rabadash and Edmund was longer, and entrancing. The crowd watched, open-mouthed, as the two whirled, graceful and deadly, leaping and turning in mimic combat, their swords flashing red in the torchlight, faster and faster, to end at last pressed chest to chest, staring into each other's eyes with what seemed a mortal enmity—and then "Prince Edmund" suddenly tumbled to the ground, declared himself utterly vanquished, and sued for mercy.

Bacchus smiled at the obvious re-purposing for this occasion of an existing, well-practised dance, but there was no time to comment. "Prince Rabadash" was speaking.

"O Tash, great Tash! Patron of the invinceable Empire of Calormen, stretching to the four ends of the earth, from this pitiable, vanquished northern Narnia…"

There was scattered jeering from the crowd. Bacchus raised his eyebrows questioningly to Tash.

"… to Calavar, in the West!" This time there was a cheer.

("Ten to one it's a plant," Bacchus muttered.)

"… to _Azim Balda_ , bang in the centre of all Calormen!" There was a stronger burst of cheering; clearly a sizeable contingent was present from the thriving crossroads city.

"… to the newest and _best_ province to pledge her allegiance— _Zalindreh!_ "

The crowd, in high spirits, and well-primed by the preceding cheers, responded by cheering themselves to the echo.

Bacchus grimaced.

"Cheering their own servitude." he said to Tash. "This is not… oh, I won't spoil their work!" in response to Tash's jerky movement of negation. "But wine and song should not...".

Tash shifted his wings, and opened his beak as if to speak, but Barynthis, judging to a nicety the ebb of the cheers, had begun to speak again.

"Great Tash, we have through your favour defeated these poor, brutish Narnians. I ask one greater favour still…

"The transformation!" exclaimed Bacchus. "But this is not.."

"Grant me, though it be but till the Mid-Autumn Festival, to take on the appearance of a Beast, that I may show to these poor Narnians that Beastly form need not condemn them to a Beastly nature, that one day they, too, may be accepted into your great Empire!"

Tash's beak clattered in satisfaction.

"Grant this, Great Tash!" Barynthis' voice rose, wild and ecstatic. "Grant this, Great Tash! Grant this, _Great Tash!_ "

There was an explosion of sparks from the two closest fires, where two of the company, shouting aloud, had thudded stout poles down into the embers—then darkness. The next instant, the torches shone out again, and where Barynthis had stood was now a towering, dominating, unquestionably majestic Horse.

The crowd roared in enthusiastic appreciation.

"Which is the end of the show, I take it," said Bacchus, in curiously flat tones, "or its high point, at least. Ahoshta's agent has done well by Calormen."

"And by us! So dies open rebellion in Zalindreh!"

Bacchus, his eyes still on the stage, nodded. The Pig and the Sheep had returned, and several of the Horses; with the remaining soldiers they were clustering around the triumphant Horse-Rabadash, gesturing ardent admiration. A bouncing, cheerful drumbeat had begun to sound. "Prince Edmund" leapt to his feet and spoke out strongly over its jaunty rhythm.

"How foolish I was, to pit myself against such majesty! What better could Narnia ask than the right to _follow_ such a leader?"

And then the whole troupe did indeed follow, marching jubilantly three times around the stage, with various cavortings by Pig and Sheep to amuse the crowd as end-piece—and in the case of certain, evidently besotted, "Narnian Mares", with much prancing, whinnying and flirtacious flicking of their tails—before marching right off the stage, and away from the torchlight and into the waiting tents.

The Zalindreh crowd cheered and stamped and cheered again. The players, sweating, exhilarated, ran back to take their bows. The show had been an unquestioned success.

The Wine-god stood musing, and silent.

"Well?" Tash raised one ironic eyebrow. "Time to rub Silenus' nose in defeat? I think we can say now that we've won."

Bacchus roused himself. "Yes. I suppose so. We've helped a young fool deceive himself back into vanity, at least, and diverted a province from its subordination to empire, so if that is winning... "

He broke off, then in response to Tash's look of mocking enquiry began again. "Yes. We've certainly won. I don't think I've ever enjoyed winning less."


	7. Epilogue: among the Immortals

**"Defeat!** Eat _defeat_ now, guzzling sot—and choke on it!"

It was always an open question, whether Tash was more ungracious when he lost, or when he won.

"Eh?" Silenus jumped, spilling his wine. "But the month's not up! We said a _month!_ "

"We did, but the game is played, Silenus." Bacchus had followed more slowly. "Rabadash is safe, whether from his own anger, or his father's commands, or sudden overthrowing by his followers. I guarantee that."

"We have all seen it is so," interposed Azaroth dispassionately. There was a general murmur of agreement.

"This isn't just _about_ Rabadash! It was about the empire! You bet that you could win against rebellion in Zalindreh… "

"The rebellion is… diverted, for the time. The empire will be holding for many years yet, I think," Bacchus said, sombrely. "Admit your loss, Silenus. Song and story and stage-play have proved stronger than the battle-strength of horses."

"But you haven't _started_ the battle!" Silenus protested, in injured tones. "If you had, we would have won!"

"If we _had_ , I think you would have!" His former pupil seemed to be regaining his usual bouyancy. "But we _didn't_ , did we, old lazy roisterer? And will Epona back you, in starting one now, for the sake of the bet?"

The White Mare tossed her head. "I contemn the battles of Humankind; if need calls, I will lend my aid, but to _start_ one…" Her mane flew again, emphatically— _no._

"Well, I don't think…" Silenus looked around, saw that the feeling of the assembly was against him, and subsided resignedly. " _Here_ , then!"

Tash's wings beat the air, thunderously; he swept up his winnings.

"All yours, Inexorable?" queried Azaroth.

"Oh, I'm not wanting any of it," Bacchus hastily."I was only in it for… for the fun of the thing—and to see Calormen, close to. There's more there for me than I thought."

"As there is more in your dominion than I knew for _me_ ," Tash said, and exhaled a long, dry hiss of satisfaction.

There was uneasy silence among the Immortals.

It was broken by Pomona's warm gentleness. "It's good that you are both back here; I was just thinking that a round of Winds and Dragons could be fun. Who wants to play?"

"I don't mind," said Zardeenah amiably. "Set the game up."

Pomona smiled back and reached to do so. From the mortal world came the sound of the twittering of sparrows.


End file.
